


Payment in Kind

by GoatEnthusiast



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 13:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13741845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoatEnthusiast/pseuds/GoatEnthusiast
Summary: The guys get paid for a gig in something other than legal tender...





	Payment in Kind

It was 3 A.M., and the Monkeemobile was speeding through the streets of Los Angeles. Mike glared out the car window, looking exasperated. “This has gotta be a new low – I can't _believe_ that guy paid us in _joints._ That's the last gig we ever play _there_!” 

“Well, the name of the club _was_ the Zombie a-Go-Go; that should have been a hint that it wasn't exactly a five-star establishment,” Micky observed.

“At least we got paid _something,_ ” Peter interjected.

“Yeah, but somehow I don't think Mr. Babbitt is gonna take a bag of marijuana in lieu of rent this month. Hey, watch that red light, Mick – we sure don't wanna get pulled over _right_ _now_. This car is conspicuous enough as it is.”

Meanwhile, Davy was giggling in the back seat. “ _I_ think we should go home and enjoy the fruit of our labor...such as it is...” He dissolved into laughter again.

“Come on, Mike,” Micky said cajolingly. “Sure, we got ripped off, but all we can do is try to make the best of it. Like Davy said, let's go home and...have a little party. Just the four of us.”

Mike's sour expression gradually faded, and a wry smile took its place. “Well, OK, if we're goin' to do this, we might as well be _prepared,_ ” he said sagely. They pulled into the parking lot of an all-night supermarket and emerged minutes later with a bag of provisions.

“Michael, how come you always know how to pick out the best bananas?” Peter asked.

“You forget, Pete, I was once the assistant to the assistant manager at Franklin's Friendly Foods in Barclay, Texas.”

When they got home, they prepared the feast: potato chips, pretzels, cookies, bananas, candy bars of various kinds, and plenty of soda.

“Let's turn on the TV: I _love_ watching when I'm high. Man, I wish _Dark Shadows_ was on right now,” said Micky.

“Or _The Avengers,_ ” Davy chimed in.

“Or _Batman,_ ” added Peter.

Mike was perusing the TV listings in the newspaper. “Sorry, guys, I think we may have to settle for _Terror From_ _the Year 5000_ on the Early Early Show.”

Then he handed out the joints and lighters ceremoniously: one for Micky, one for Davy, one for Peter, and one for himself. “To...the Zombie a-Go-Go Club!”

“I'll smoke to that!” said Micky, and took a puff.

“I'm still under age, you know. You blokes are contributing to the delinquency of a minor,” Davy pointed out, then inhaled deeply.

Peter took a long hit. “Mmmm...this is _good_ stuff,” he said approvingly.

Mike inhaled overzealously and began to cough. “You know what they say – the more you cough, the more you get off!,” Micky said brightly.

Peter was staring at his pencil sketch of a cow on the wall by the kitchen. Suddenly he was seized with a burning question. “Michael, have you ever milked a cow?”

“ _What?_ Man, I worked in a _supermarket_. The closest _I_ ever came to milkin' a cow was when I stocked the  dairy case.”

Davy dropped his joint on the floor. “Oh, bugger!”

“Now, now, Davy, we'll have none of that kind of language _here,_ ” Micky said primly.

Then the conversation ceased; everyone attacked the food as though they hadn't eaten in days.

In between mouthfuls of potato chips, Micky began to sing off-key, “ _Hey hey hey we're the Monkeeees_...”

Davy joined in tunelessly, “ _And people say we monkeeee arounnnd..._ ”

“Whoever came up with that name anyway?” Mike asked, puzzled. “I always thought it was kinda silly.”

“I thought _you_ did,” Peter replied.

“I thought _Micky_ did,” Davy said.

“It wasn't me – I thought it was _Peter's_ idea.”

The discussion ended abruptly: Mike spilled the bag of pretzels on the couch, which made everyone laugh uproariously.

Peter was now on his fifth banana.“I wonder if Lyndon Johnson ever smokes grass with Hubert Humphrey?” he mused.

As usually happened when marijuana was involved, Mike's drawl was getting thicker. “I...will not _hear_ of such in-sin-u-a-tions about my fellow Texan...” he said in mock indignation.

“Mike, there's something you've gotta tell me,” Davy said. “Have you ever...worn a ten-gallon hat?”

Mike began to splutter with laughter. “Davy, you are _stoned_.”

“Well...I think _you_ are, too,” was Davy's witty retort.

_Terror From the Year 5000_ turned out to be cut-rate sci-fi about scientists with a teleportation device and a sinister visitor from the future. The promised terror never materialized, but Mike, Micky, Davy, and Peter didn't mind. They contentedly smoked their joints and munched on their snacks, only occasionally attempting to figure out what was happening on the screen.

It was almost 5 AM. The television flickered silently in the background; at some point, someone had turned the sound off. No one noticed.

Peter was busy making the remaining bananas dance on the coffee table.

Davy was asleep in the armchair, clutching a half-eaten Baby Ruth bar in his hand.

Micky suddenly had the feeling that it was really 1949, and that he was in a nightclub in Tokyo, but he couldn't be certain. He blinked at the TV screen and imagined Japanese subtitles on the soundless commercial for Crazy Earl's Used Car Emporium.

By now, Mike was sitting on the floor. He began to giggle helplessly.

“What...are you...laughing at, Mike?” Micky asked. It seemed to him that the question stretched out for several minutes.

“Davy's... _shoes_...they're so _funny_...,” Mike explained.

Gradually, the daylight beginning to filter through the windows roused everyone, even Davy, from their cannabis-induced haze.

Just before they all floated upstairs to bed, Mike said, “You know...tomorrow I'm gonna call that guy at that....Zombie....whatever...place. Maybe he'll book us _again_ sometime...”


End file.
